He Again (S)he pt 2

The first light crept lazily through the ashen, black branches. It hummed low behind the curtain of lingering smoke left from the fire. It was the damnedest thing, fire. Elk’s Wood had stood tall, majestic guard to this manor since before his Grandfather’s Grandfather. To now peer from the balcony, taking in the black, gnarled, clutching claws of the burnt wood, made him imagine the curly legged bodies of so many dead spiders. The slow pressing clouds of smoke passed through the spider legs, indignant…muttering grumpy mutterings amongst themselves, in no particular hurry to be wherever it was they were to end up. And for fuck’s sake, it was so quiet. Old bone and dusty rock quiet. The loud kind of quiet. The sort that felt like an impatient look or an uncomfortable stare. He shivered a bit, deciding suddenly to snatch himself from the window and so he did, retreating to the comforts of his bed. As it was, the air was in one of its moods, biting at his legs and slightly stinging the tips of his ears. Not being up to the argument, he sank into the black fur spread and as sleep began to overtake him, he began to dream a song he thought he heard not long ago in the market place.

He was, at the time, eagerly going back and forth with the bearded man who sells the incense he liked. The bearded man shared the same affection for the fights that he did and often they would bicker with fervor as to which combatant owned the day. Was it the lightning quick lad from the jungle regions or the outspoken technician from near the Great Lake? “Surely it is the blazing power and speed of the Jungle’s man! No, no, not at all. It is quite easily the calculative sharpshooter from the land near the Lake!” Alas, the match would never happen, casting their two opinions in an iron that would likely never know rust. But they enjoyed debating the matter just the same and so the banter became part of their routine.

He tucked the bundle of incense in his satchel and it was then that he noticed the young girls that had lately taken to settling by the fountain most days. They sang a new song he’d instantly become fond of (as they would tend to do to songs and singing and such.) The melody was simple but sweet and told of a “young girl with the middle name Star…headed to a place from a place from afar” …or something like that. Anyway, he liked the girls’ song and as much, they way they sang it. Their eyes closed, chins toward the sky, grinning the smiles that one smiles when promises are kept. He’d been almost unknowingly singing the song to himself the entire way past the market, down past Hope’s Road and beyond the King’s House.

Making his way through the pass that led through the wood, he came across the big red tree they’d carved their names in. He recalled her laughter as she struggled to scribble her name in the bark. How she suddenly had the idea that the tree could feel the pain of the chiseled inscription. Her brow wrinkled over the idea and he reached out, pulling her toward him. Dropping the sharp rock, she collapsed into him with soft, faux protest. Her voice twinkling lights and chiming bells and like always, she stared into him. He was shy but reflected her gaze just the same. She was the only one he’d ever done that with so to him, with her, it was special…as if they were the only owners of eyes ever. He could’ve lapped at the memory for as long as time feels it should bother with a man but he pressed on.

The wind picked up, hissing angry whispers by his ears. Contemptuous and unfriendly were these winds, so he hastened his pace, mind jostling with thoughts of hot soup, spiced meats, cold, frothy brews and feet and toes wriggling freely about near a crackling fireplace’s flame.

He settled mindlessly into the manor (Court De Leon as he fancied it) lighting a fat, three wicked wax candle that smelled of minted jasmine and tossed his coat towards the banister. He donned his favorite robe; thick, plush and black as raven’s eye. He began to nod with lazy lidded eyes and feline purrs when something startled him awake suddenly.  He sat up quickly, blinking with heavy eyes and muddled thoughts. The wind was still howling as it raced past the windows, sending the wind chimes into an angry fit when he heard a “thunk” sink into the wood of the main chamber door. Sitting upright, ears perked, he remained slack jawed and motionless…waiting…listening. Only the wind would entertain him, whining in long, gusty breaths. Wait…is that? What is that? A faint scratching was it? Like a thin fingernail scraping at the oak door.

He stood up, on edge now…a cat hunched and hissing. Glancing around franticly, he settled in on the sheathed blade he kept close. Retrieving it swiftly, staying on the balls of his bare feet, he jaunted towards the door, cold stone underfoot. He blew out the flickering dance of the candle near the door and slowly moved the chamber door’s slide open. Pressing his back against the wall, he readied himself with three deep breaths; his chest rising and falling heavily. Whoosh! He flung the heavy wooden door open, standing leveraged with his glinting, thirsty metal waiting to fly and spill and drink its fill.

There was nothing. Nothing there but the dry chill of the night air, an owl’s faint call in the distance and handful of dry leaves scampering in past his feet, happy to be free of the cold. A look right, a look left. He frowned, cursed and turned to close the chamber door when he noticed the rusty arrow protruding from the wood. The blade appeared chipped and ancient, ornate and dark grey. Its shaft was a polished, dark red stain followed in rear by black feathers. It held a pinned parchment paper to the door and the edges of the paper scratched at the wood whenever the breezes gave order. As he reached to pry it from the wood he stopped and looked about once more suspiciously. “Oh shut up, owl.”

He freed the pointed thing from the old, splintered door and slammed it closed, muffling the crying wind, causing the chamber air to stand still abruptly. The strange parchment was rolled and sealed with black wax and held depressed in it an elaborate insignia…an angry Ram’s head on a woman’s body, encircled by characters from a script he could not read. He cracked open the wax seal, unraveled the parchment and read.

His jaw clamped tightly and the veins near his temple throbbed. His eyes grew large and stung hot with tears as they first welled up and then rolled fat and deliberate down his cheek. He crunched the foul paper in his fist tightly…angrily. He turned with a start, dark fur coat spinning behind him and darted towards the staircase. He flung the now balled up parchment towards the fireplace and stormed upstairs.

It's Come to This

The blood dripping down his arm made his grip slick and the blade more difficult to wield. He squinted his eyes under the noon sun, blinking as the occasional bead of sweat dripped from his brow, threatening to steal focus from the assorted band of assailants that cornered him at the mouth of the river near his home. They'd come in flag bearing legions just as the sky had opened up to daybreak. On horse and on foot they'd arrived through the valley pass with angry, swollen hearts, thirsty metal and faded patience and thus, there would be no heed paid to the words of men.

He & She (S)he Pt.1

They walked slowly along the cobblestone path, their fingers warm, intermingled things. Lanky blades of green brushed past her legs as they spoke and she'd occasionally stop and pull away to whiff this and to touch that. His lips curled boyishly as he watched her and the way she would dance with the world, taking the time to taste each morsel and to speak each named thing's name.

Meandering past a silver brook and under a burly tree they spoke of a wounded music and how and why such a thing came to be. Up the foothills towards the approaching dusk it was more of such and he saw, as she spoke, a creature not unlike himself. Feline eyes peered back into him and he felt the way he thought mist must often feel. The now failing light boasted its last amber rebuttal and gave her face glow and warmth and he wanted to touch her cheek but he did not.

They finally approached his manor, laden with maned cats and other idiosyncratic vanities and as he made down the pathway towards the wooden door he felt her hand slip from his. He turned and looked back and there she stood from him, all but stone and statue. With the light now gone from the sky, her eyes lay in shadow but still, he could see she was not fixed on him. Her neck craned upwards and her head tilted slightly to the side. She was looking up…at the bell tower. They stood there still in the loud, thick, soup of silence for longer than they should have and the breeze, knowing this, whipped past them shattering the spell. She stepped close and looked at him now, head tilted down and with an eye that told the tale. He reluctantly met her gaze and stared back with a hope and a look that did not have all the words it needed to survive the winter. She held him…tighter than he expected and with more patience so he held her back. With one arm at first, then with two and while they embraced time tapped its foot on the ground, not so subtly alluding to having places to go. She pulled free and he released her and watched her walk away, back through the courtyard and towards the foothills.

He stood a moment then turned towards his front door. Before entering he pulled his blade from its sheath a few inches then pushed it back in and as he fumbled in his satchel for the key, he took a glance upwards towards the bell tower. His chest heaved a deep and melancholy sigh at the familiar sight of the dark, winged things flapping and circling around the tower. He’d slain so many of them. He’d spilled their blood without a whisper from another soul and those remaining would also surrender their un-lives to his blade. He would again, do this without the enlisted aid of anyone but his own, arrogant will to continue. He shook his head sadly while he turned the creaky lock. The door moaned an old man’s moan being pushed from its rest. He slowly entered his chambers and shut the door behind him.

Ode to Evil

It's long been my opinion that some women are indeed the Devil... 

Demonic harlots that dip themselves in sweet smelling perfume, accentuating their form with the thin allure of a G-string and the tempting presentation of a push-up bra. Damn you foul temptress...infernal Succubus of the drunken night. With your batting lashes and lips aglow with some glistening, candy colored coating. Be gone evil Nymph....with your finely manicured talons clutching for currency as you beguile me with untruths and embolden my ignorance by engulfing me whole. Take to the wind fiendish Harpy...you Siren song singer. I can no longer bear the sight of your curvaceous form and sinister smile...your soft deceptive laughter. I banish thee! 



Wait! 






Soooo....you are gonna call me......right? 

Just 15 more minutes

The wind began to hurry, leaving her swimming in that smell the air carries with it as an impending storm approaches. A few leaves rustled past, scratching the cracking pavement as they danced past her legs and off into the bushes beyond the edge of the road. She pulled her coat closer but decided to not even attempt to pull on the hood with the wind doing what wind does when it gets antsy. Besides, she was headed north, which was against the wind, so she decided "fuck it...just let the damned thing flap."

The sky was darkening quickly, bleeding varied purples into the gray clouds and the first few pelts pattered her hands and eyebrow. She quickened her pace somewhat but after the initial inclination, she allowed the heaviness weighing her spirit to slow her back down to a pace more befitting of a person with nothing to lose and even less to care about. She continued up the road, her forward trudge being more habitual than anything else. All the stories she'd loved as a child surrounded heroes of strength and character...figures that didn't quit. If they didn't quit, well then she wasn't allowed to quit either. It was as though she'd shame them if she did...as if the lessons housed in fictitious sacrifices would somehow be in vain if she couldn't manage to implement them in her here and her now. "With great power comes great responsibility" right? Yeah...and it fuckin' sucks.

The first crackle of thunder broke through the whooshing of the wind and rain came down in heavy waves, draping it's weight on her shoulders in sheets. She was soaked to the skin in no time and only now that it wasn't an option, she strongly craved one of the two remaining cigarettes in the soft pack of Reds she had in her jacket pocket. Good luck with that though huh?

By the third time she'd hummed the entirety of the same song that had been stuck in her head all week, she crested a hill and saw the dim lights of an old diner up ahead. Melancholy aside, a hot cup of coffee, that she may or may not splash with the whiskey left in her flask, accompanied by a sandwich and maybe even some fries was suddenly enough to hasten her step.

She took her first step out of the rain and underneath the lip of the patio she flexed and bent her foot so she could watch the water squish out of the seams of her dirty, red "Chucks" before stepping inside.